


Shall We Jump?

by darlinghogwarts, MaddyHughes



Series: Stars, Sea, Sky [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk!Hannibal, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7248871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlinghogwarts/pseuds/darlinghogwarts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyHughes/pseuds/MaddyHughes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since their first kiss, Hannibal and Will haven't touched. Will decides to do something about that...</p><p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6777859">The Stars Are Yours</a>, our post-S3 role play as @legohannibal and @william_grahams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall We Jump?

Perhaps the most charming aspect of living in Poros is the beauty of each sunset. Colors spill across the sky, so lovely that Will's eyes stray to the horizon even as he tries to watch his step. Bright yellow leaks into long streaks of soft pink clouds, which fade into the blue sky. At the very edge of the horizon, orange lightens into a color very much like the turmeric powder Hannibal sometimes uses in his culinary preparations. 

His lips curve into a small smile, and he barely notices as the slight movement is accompanied by the scar stretching across his cheek. His thin, white shirt clings to his frame as the gentle breeze dances past him, tangling his hair. 

His pace has slowed, and his walk has turned into a careless stroll. Will doesn't realize just how relaxed his body is until someone brushes past him in the crowded market, nearly knocking him off his feet. The action doesn't cause his muscles to immediately tense; his hand doesn't automatically reach in his pocket to grip the hilt of his knife, and his chest doesn't tighten in anticipation of an attach. He merely straightens, brushing off the stuttered apologizes with a small smile, and continues on his way.

The feeling of peace has started to settle in his thoughts, as opposed to flitting through his mind for a few moments before being dismissed by doubt. He has gone from seeing every accidental brush as a threat to acknowledging it for what it is—an accident. 

It is a small change, but as the paranoia dies away from his daily routine, other matters take its place in his mind. Each individual to brush past him isn't as significant in his mind anymore. The crowded market isn't full of law enforcement, and friendly tourists lightly tapping his shoulder to ask for directions don't evoke the same response as they did a few months ago.

... But that hardly means that his mind is calm.

His mind is like an elastic; the moment he strays too far, his thoughts snap back to Hannibal, distracting him from the world around him. 

The sunset reminds him of Hannibal, and so do the stars. The colors, the smell of salt in the air, the sounds of the water crashing into the beach. 

It doesn't particularly help that ever since that night, they haven't touched each other. They have conversed, yes; talked about everything from psychology to art to music, history, science. 

Everything but the underlying tension that is laced in every one of these conversations. In principle, nothing has changed. However, Will knows Hannibal well enough to see the changes in his demeanor.

This... inaction is unlike him.

Will does not know the reason of this inaction. He has his theories, but one train of thought is hardly enough to justify any of Hannibal's actions or inactions. Each step he takes is calculated, and his reasons for being so unusually passive are difficult to predict. Will wishes to say that he is on his guard when it comes to their relationship, but fails to-understand why. And while this lack of knowledge about Hannibal's motives was once expected, it is now unusual. 

Hannibal's inaction, however, has no reason to sway Will. If Hannibal does not act, he will.

For their game to be like a stagnant lake is unsettling. Without a single step forward, they have been motionless in space.

He is tired of this inaction.

And thus, as he makes his way back to their cottage, he carries with him two bottles of Hannibal's favorite local wine.

When he walks inside, he carefully arranges the chairs in the balcony to mimic the arrangement of their chairs in Hannibal's office in Baltimore. Carefully placing the bottles on the kitchen table inside, Will settles in the balcony once more, closing his eyes as he waits for Hannibal to come back home.

**

Hannibal goes to the clifftop about half a mile from their cottage every day. Always alone. Sometimes he gazes down at the crawling sea. Sometimes he tilts his head back and lets the sun warm his face. He feels the sea wind on his skin and in his hair and he feels every bit of the freedom he now possesses. 

When he was imprisoned, he promised himself that he would do this every day, to make up for the months and years without natural sunlight, without a breeze.

It is one of the many things he promised himself he would do. And though he always keeps his promises, he has not yet been able to keep them all.

On the clifftop, he merely exists. He breathes, and he feels, and he does not think. Or he doesn't /quite/ think. His mind wanders and settles into patterns, sometimes complex, sometimes simple.

When he looks down at the sea, he thinks of falling, in Will Graham's arms. He thinks of the pivots on which his life has turned. He thinks of death and endings and beginnings. 

When he looks up at the sky and sun, he thinks of the stars which he cannot see. He thinks of the touch of Will Graham's lips on his own in the night. He thinks of love and fear.

He comes to no conclusions. There is no conclusion to the sea or the sky or the stars. They just are. As Hannibal is.

Today, he is looking up at the sky, following the flight of a frigate bird, so high as to be hardly visible. He watches until the bird disappears in the distance, and then he draws in a deep breath, a deep breath of freedom.

And he walks back to the cottage, calling, as he always does when he enters: “Will?”

Without opening his eyes, Will calls out: “In the balcony.”

Hannibal pushes his sunglasses onto the top of his head and goes out to the balcony. The furniture has been moved. There is an echo of memory in it. He smiles at Will, as he can't help doing every time he sees him. He's tanned, and fit and well, and Hannibal has done that to him, as once he made Will pale and sick and afraid.

“How was your walk?” he asks.

Will opens his eyes, ignoring the slight twinge of discomfort as his lips stretch into a wide smile. “Good. I brought your-favorite wine. How was yours?”

“Good.” He settles into the unoccupied chair. “You bought the Limnio? How considerate of you. Thank you.”

After the night when they touched, and kissed, and when Hannibal gave far too much of himself away, they have settled back into this politeness, this consideration. It is less than he feels, of course: far less. But it is much safer for them both, and safety is not to be discarded lightly.

“Shall we have a glass before dinner?” Hannibal asks.

Will nods, swiftly rising to his feet and making his way back to the kitchen. Taking out two glasses, he pours a generous amount in both. When he comes back outside, he brings the bottle with him, placing it on the table along with their glasses. “A glass, or perhaps two.”

Hannibal ha's made the connection between the relative positions of their chairs, and as he lifts his glass, he asks: “Do you remember when we shared a glass of wine in my office? Back when I was your therapist?”

“Yes. I quite miss it.” It isn't the purpose of this rearrangement, but it isn't a lie.

He takes a sip, appreciating the wine's herbaceous flavour. “You miss being in therapy?”

“I miss our conversations.”

“We have conversations every day.”

“We have conversations about the world.”

“Whereas you would rather have conversations about your mind?”

“About my mind? No.”

“What would you like to talk about, Will?”

He takes a slow sip, his gaze shifting from Hannibal to the sky. “We talk about art, history, beauty. Hardly about ourselves.”

“Perhaps we feel that too much intimacy would be a danger to the balance we have seemed to achieve.”

Will swallows down his replies with the wine, knowing that now isn't the time. The silence between them is comfortable, and when Will speaks again, he speaks of something else. “The sky is breathtaking.”

Will Graham is breathtaking. The last hint of the sunset lingers in his hair, and sparks in the blue of his eyes.

“And this same grape has been grown and harvested and made into wine, under this same sky, since the time of Aeneas,” Hannibal says. “We are experiencing the same tastes and sights as the ancient Greeks.”

“We are seeing the world as they did, admiring the beauty they admired. But are we interpreting it the same way they did?”

“Of course not. Every human being sees the world through the glass of their own perceptions and experiences. What you and I have done and seen and felt, the lives we have lived and the deaths we have seen and caused, colour the sunset and give-depth to the wine.” He pauses. “Would you change your colours, Will, if you could?”

“Our lives are drastically different from theirs, but there are some human struggles and traits that never quite change. I know, perhaps better than most people, that every individual will see these colors in a different light. But there will always be certain colors that are universally recognizable.” 

Will takes a long sip, silent for a few moments. The last rays of sunshine are leaving, taking the vibrance of the sky with them. Time stands still, and the world slows around him as he savors this moment. “I wouldn't change my colors as much as I would like to add to them.”

“What would you like to add?” Hannibal is being careful, so careful, all the time. And yet he needs to know.

“What I once ran away from.”

“Your attraction to murder?”

“My attraction to many things. Having someone's life in my hands is one of them.”

Hannibal's heart is pounding. It takes a great amount of self-control not to betray himself by his expression. Self-control, and the rest of the wine in his glass. He empties it, and then fills up his glass, and Will's.

“What are the other things?”

Will takes another small sip of his wine. “Must every color have a name?”

“No. Some colours are too subtle to name. And yet we try to name them all, because we believe that to identify is to-understand and possess.”

“Some things are too complex to be understood. That is what makes them beautiful.”

Hannibal smiles. He plays with the stem of his glass. The wine, drunk quickly after a hot day, has settled into his body with languid, heavy ease—a contrast to his beating heart.

“Complexity is another thing that attracts you,” he says. “And me.”

“Complexity is beautiful if one can work their way through it. If one can't, they become tangled in it, unable to move forward.”

Hannibal lifts his glass to take a sip, and is surprised that it is nearly empty. “I should make dinner.” But he doesn't get up. The wine has made his limbs pleasantly heavy.

“I can make dinner, if you are hungry. I don't quite feel like eating anything right now.”

“It can wait.”Night is falling, and Hannibal can see Venus in the darkening sky. “Do you ever wish on the first star you see, Will?”

“I haven't in many years. Do you?”

“I don't believe in wishes. I believe in volition, and choice, and fate.“ Will's glass is still nearly full. He reaches for the bottle and tips it into his glass, again surprised when there is hardly any wine left in it. He is not paying enough attention. Or rather, he is paying too much attention, but to the wrong things.

Will breathes in deeply. “Why did you ask?”

Hannibal drinks. The words are in his glass: “Because you said that you missed our conversations about ourselves. And yet you are very pointedly avoiding talking about yourself.”

Bluntly, Will replies, “You don't want to hear what I will say.”

“You have sometimes told me things which I did not like. But I have never not wanted to hear what you have to say.”

“Are you certain you want to know?”

Hannibal is not certain. He gets up, his legs unsteady, and walks without answering into the kitchen, where he takes the second bottle of wine, already opened and breathing. He carries it to the balcony and sets it down between them. 

It is in the nature of a challenge. And he is not certain, and this is not wise, and they are precariously balanced, he and Will, on a cliff's edge, and this may topple them over. Hannibal drains his glass, recklessness making him feel light where before he felt heavy.

“I want to know.”

Without speaking, Will stands, walking around the table between them. He leans in, warm palm gently cupping Hannibal's cheek. 

He tilts Hannibal's face up as he closes the space that separates them, leaning down to softly press his lips against his. Will's hands move on their own accord, one slipping from Hannibal’s cheek to cup the back of his neck as the other grips his shoulder. He deepens their kiss before pulling away, slightly breathless. When he speaks, his lips brush against Hannibal's.

“This is what I wanted to say.”

“And this is what I wanted to hear,” says Hannibal.

He rises from his chair, to stand with Will, face to face with him, and he is dizzy. He is drunk. He is reckless. He reaches out and seizes the curls at the back of Will's head in his fist, and tilts Will's head back, almost savagely, almost like how he tilted back Francis Dolarhyde's head so that he could rip out the throat of the dragon. 

And then he kisses Will as he has wanted to kiss Will.

Not romantic, not hesitant. Not trying to take things slowly, or preserve a precarious balance. He kisses Will Graham with all of the hunger he has been denied for years, with all of the passion that he has not been allowed to express. He kisses Will and he pushes Will backwards against the column of the balcony, pressing up against him, the whole length of their bodies, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, groin to groin, thigh to thigh, and he kisses Will hard and ravenously.

Unrestrained, drunken, and almost violent, with a force stronger than gravity.

Will's short gasp is swallowed by Hannibal's lips as he is pushed against the column, his back hitting the wall with a dull, hard thump. His hesitation lasts for only a few seconds before he pulls him closer and kisses him back with the same fervent hunger, his actions feral in their passion. His body is hot as he presses against him, heart pounding so fast that he wonders if Hannibal can feel it. 

And then his hands are gripping Hannibal's hips hard enough to leave bruises, and Will is biting down on his lips, letting out a low groan as the fingers in his hair tighten. 

It's violent and filthy, and Will loves every second of it.

The almost obscene groan that escapes Hannibal's lips, the hand that grips his hair, the way their bodies fit perfectly together, the wave of pleasure that travels down his body as the solid bulge of his erection presses against Hannibal's. He loves every second of it, and he is drowning in pleasure, and if he believed in God, he would pray to be in the moment for the rest of his life. 

And Will doesn't know how much time has passed, but he is addicted to Hannibal's lips, to the sounds he makes and the way he feels, to the taste of wine on his tongue, to the way his body moves against Will's, and—

—And then Will is pushing him away, his lips swollen and tingling, his hair in disarray, curls falling out of place. He is breathing hard, lips already aching for Hannibal's and heart beating wildly in his chest.

When Will speaks, his voice is surprisingly steady. 

“You are drunk.”

With those three words from Will’s mouth, Hannibal’s passion and arousal turns instantly to rage.

“Yes, I am drunk,” he says. “I am drunk because you wanted me to be drunk. You never buy wine, or open two bottles at once. You wanted me to be drunk, and I wanted to be drunk, to break this stalemate between us.” 

Hannibal clenches the hands that until a moment ago were holding Will. 

“This is the most dangerous game we have ever played, Will. This is not a romance. It is not stars and sunsets and wishes. It is not your impossible crush on Alana, or your sweet accommodating marriage with Molly. It is that wound in your gut, that slice in your cheek, and this brand on my back. It is our daughter dead and your family lost. It is me waking in the night believing I am still in prison. It is your ghosts and visions and my return, after years away, to fear.

“I want you in every way it is possible to want a man, and that includes blood and horror and danger. The way I want you could destroy us both and it probably will. 

“So yes, I am drunk. No rational man would break this stalemate if he were sober.”

He turns away from Will, knocking over the second bottle of wine on the table. It pours out onto the floor, red as blood. Swiftly, more sure-footed than he should be, he walks out of the cottage and into the night.

And as Hannibal walks away, his footsteps sharp and precise, Will is frozen where he stands. The reaction was unexpected.

Or perhaps it wasn't.

His long, shuddering breath is loud in the dark, empty balcony. He slumps against the balcony column, head hitting the wall as he leans back. His eyes find the stars once more, and Will can't help but think that they aren't as beautiful.

Now he knows why.

His voice is soft, lips barely moving. “We have been destroyed and remade for each other. Do you truly think we'll crumble?”

All he receives is silence from the air.

Swiftly, he straightens and makes his way to the kitchen, bringing back a piece of cloth and some water to wipe away the spilled wine.

He can't help but be reminded of their spilled blood, black in the moonlight.

Once the floor is spotless like it was before, he puts away the bottle and the cloth. The cottage is dark, but he navigates through it effortlessly, as if he has been living here his whole life. When he finds himself in the balcony once more, Will swings himself onto the ledge, his feet swinging as he sits on the cool concrete, body resting against the side of the column. 

Hannibal stands on the edge of the cliff, on the same spot where he stood earlier. He doesn't look at the sea, or the sky, or at anything except for within himself, where he would most prefer not to look. 

His body aches for Will Graham. He still feels Will in his arms, pressed up against him, aroused and hot, his eager, brutal kisses, the way he pulled Hannibal closer, as close as it was possible for them to be and still be clothed. 

Will wants Hannibal, in the same way that Hannibal wants Will. Their embrace was carnal and desperate, with the particular poetry of violent lust.

Nothing that Hannibal said to Will, in his outburst of anger, was a surprise to him. Will knows all this. He knows their relationship is dangerous. These months together began with their joint murder-suicide. This is not why Will rejected Hannibal. Not why he pushed him away. 

Will was not afraid, or disgusted, or uncertain. If anything, he was probably trying not to take advantage of Hannibal's intoxicated state. He was being respectful.

All of this is easy to understand. So why is Hannibal not back in the cottage?

He has wanted nothing more than this for months. Years. Will Graham in his arms, eager and wanting, truly himself. 

So why does he hesitate? Take one step, and then falter? Why get drunk, become angry, teeter on the edge of a cliff and lack the heart to topple over? 

It may not end well. It will probably not end well. But this would have never bothered Hannibal in the past. He would have seized the moment, enjoyed it to the full, drained the cup of their emotion and pleasure to the dregs. It is there to be drunk.

But he cannot. He is poised on this edge, unmoving. He will not let Will drag him over, into another kind of rebirth.

Hannibal shakes his head. His eyes focus. He steps forward: inches from the edge of this cliff where he stands. It is not as high as the cliff Will pulled them off in America, and the water is warmer.

It would still do.

He looks down at the black water beneath him, glinting in moonlight, and wonders which cliff is more dangerous to him: the real cliff where he stands inches from death, or the metaphorical cliff between him and Will's love.

Once one hour has passed since Hannibal left, Will turns his body and jumps off the ledge, his feet landing on the marble floor of their balcony. 

Will doesn't know where Hannibal goes when he takes his walks. His feet carry him towards the woods, and as he treks his way up the trail, he realizes that he isn't entirely aware where Hannibal goes in his mind either. 

A twig snaps under his foot and Will pauses. Fifteen minutes of walking and no sign of Hannibal. He breathes in deeply, closing his eyes. While the woods are significantly cooler, the air is still humid. He can smell the sea in the air, and can hear the waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of this mountain. Everything he sees, smells, feels is familiar. 

And Will knows.

Before he can think too much, he's changing direction and following the sound of the sea. He can imagine Hannibal walking down this same path, eyes gazing at the night sky. The trail is suddenly steep, and the image in his mind begins to solidify. The trees thin out and the ground beneath his feet gradually becomes harder. A few more minutes of hiking take him to one of the higher points on the mountain. The path becomes steep again before evening out, and that is when Will sees him.

He is standing at the very edge, and Will's chest tightens, his heart skipping a beat at the sight. He walks slowly, not trying to be agile, not wanting to startle Hannibal. When he speaks, he is still a few feet away. 

“It's a full moon tonight.”

Hannibal registers no surprise at Will's voice. “As it was that night.”

“And is tonight similar to that night in more ways than one?”

“Do you want to push me off?” 

“No. But you are standing quite close to the edge.”

Hannibal is still looking at the sea. “How close are we to the edge, Will? Are we about to topple into something we do not yet understand?”

“We understand how we feel. Isn't that enough?”

“Is it enough for you, Will? Your feelings have often been contradictory and painful. Reflected from someone else.”

“If it wasn't enough, I wouldn't have kissed you on our first night here. Or today.”

Hannibal gazes down at the water for a long moment. Then, without looking at Will, he holds out his hand for his.

Will walks forward until they are standing side by side, their bodies almost touching. He takes Hannibal's hand, squeezing lightly.

“Shall we jump?” Will asks.

Hannibal considers it: the actual jump, and the metaphorical. The fall and the splash into water that feels solid as rock. Or the opening of hearts, the sharing of flesh, the breathing in time.

His lips twitch: not quite a smile. “Not tonight. I'm too drunk.”

He squeezes Will's hand. “Shall we go home?”

Will turns his head to gaze at Hannibal, his lips curving slightly. He leans in, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. “Yes.”


End file.
